Camped Out

Well, I’m back.

I must apologize to those of you who hang upon my every word, as my words have been few and far between this month. I have a good excuse (if any excuse can be classified as such).

You see, I’ve been camping. I’ve been camping a lot. Not once, not twice, but three times in the past three weeks, with my three kids, I have ventured into the wild and experienced its wonders. I wore out my flip-flops, my daughter is now a pro at peeing outside while I hold her in “hover” position, and I’m pretty sure my hair will smell like I smoke a pack a day for two more weeks, regardless of how many times I rinse and repeat.

Basically, I never want to hear the words “great” and “outdoors” in the same sentence again. Ever.

I may also be boycotting the words “sleep” and “dirt,” as I have had too little of one, and too much of the other. I’ll let you know how that turns out.

But because I am filled with positivity (I took a shower) and light (I shaved my legs), I am taking this opportunity to turn my own pain and suffering into a tidbit for the rest of you. I’m that generous.

The first thing you’ve got to know is that I’m not a hater. I love being outside. Camping and I usually get along quite well. I don’t mind dirt, bugs, and sleeping on rocks, and I enjoy roasting mallows, singing “Kumbaya” around the campfire, and swimming in water that won’t turn my hair green (although there are often green things floating in it). I’m a country girl ya’ll.

But there is such a thing as too much of a good thing.

Camping is a lot of fun. But FYI, it is also a lot of work. Especially for the women/mothers/people that do all the work that keeps everyone else happy just sitting around and basking in the “vacation” part of the vacation (i.e. the men). Therefore, when considering a camping trip, you would do well to remember this simple equation:

Estimate the amount of fun you will have on this campout.

Times that number by two.

Add 1 for each pound of stuff you have to pack.

Add 25 if your family eats more than just hot dogs and s’mores.

Add 10 for each child you have (husbands count if you have to pack for them).

Add 50 for each two-year-old you have (husbands may also count here).

Times this number by 3 if your significant other is more concerned with bringing toys (motorcycles, weapons, fishing equipment, etc.) than having clean clothing and sufficient bedding (IloveyouHoneyyou’reperfecttheway

youareIwouldn’ttradeyouforanyoneexceptmaybeHughJackmanbutyouknowthatalready).

The number you end up with is the amount of work you will have to do in order to have this thing called “fun” while camping. I will leave it to you to decide whether or not it’s worth it.

Some of you may also want to add a bit to the equation depending on the number of pounds you gain on your lively excursions (aka: Let’s-see-how-much-junk-we-can-consume Campouts). So, let’s see, that’s FOUR for me. But it could have been worse, right? I mean, it was three camping trips with hardly a break in between and my workouts went down the tube… so that’s totally normal, right? Should come right off. Right? RIGHT?!

Ok. Bring on the lettuce.

Obviously, camping was a lot of work. It was also a lot of fun. I wouldn’t trade my campouts this month for anything. I was with people I love, who maybe kinda probably sorta love me, and we made some great memories.

But I’m gonna lay it out for you here, people. Don’t bother to ask me to go out into the woods again any time soon, because I am

Officially. Camped. Out.